Ten To One newsletter - August 2013

 

This is the newsletter for the exciting collaborative writing project from Pigeon Park Press in which ten writers will create a novel together. This newsletter contains the latest chapters for you to read and provides you with instructions on how to vote for which writers (and characters) stay in the novel.

 

 

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

 

 

1) NEWS

 

 

First Round Results - The first round of chapters for Ten To One were shared 4 weeks ago and the public were asked to vote for their favourite characters/writers. All the authors were critically praised by our judges but someone had to be voted out.  The votes from Facebook and e-mail were combined with the judges' scores and Giselle Thompson, creator of the character Flic, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Giselle has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

 

 

Ten To One author interview - William Thirsk-Gaskill -

As part of the Ten To One project, we are interviewing each of the Ten To One authors and posting that interview on the Idle Hands collaborative writing blog. This month, William Thirsk-Gaskill talks about his character, Tim, about the value of writing courses and the challenges that come with collaborative writing projects.

http://www.mrclovenhoof.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/ten-to-one-author-interview-william.html

 

 

 

 

2) HOW TO VOTE

 

We will be posting the chapters, piece by piece on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel )  but the easiest way to read them all is in this e-mail newsletter. Once you have read all the chapters, you will need to go to our Facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel. You will need to have a Facebook account to access this page.

Facebook has 'retired' the Ask a Question feature for Pages/People. That means we cannot ask you to vote for your favourite chapter with a push button voting form.

So, instead, we'd like you read the chapters and then 'Like' your favourites (i.e. like the post containing that chapter). This change does mean that you can vote for more than one chapter if you wish and we don't have a problem with that.

We will be handing out points (from 10 down to 2) to the authors/characters based on how many likes they get.

Oh, and do remember, we are now voting on chapters 2.1 to 2.9. The deadline is midnight 14th August.

Happy reading!

 

 

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

 

Below is the second round of chapters for Ten To One (continuing the story of nine out of the original characters). If you have not read the first round of chapters featuring all ten of the original characters, you can read them by following this link to last month's newsletter.

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

 

 

And now the second round of chapters...

 

2.1 - Shaun

 

Knock, knock, knock.

Shaun put his bowl down next to the monitor and threw on a hoodie as he walked across the living room. He already knew who they were; he had seen them on the CCTV and buzzed them in so they could 'make some enquiries.' He hadn't thought they would need to speak to him. What if they knew about Popescu's gun?

Through the peep-hole, the two figures looked distant and warped. He slid out the security chain, turned the lock, and opened the door.

"Hello," the woman spoke first, showing her badge "I'm Detective Sergeant Young, this is my colleague, DC Chivers."

The man nodded at Shaun.

"Yeah," Shaun said, "we spoke on the, er..." He gestured toward the monitor and intercom.

"Oh. You're the concierge?" She looked surprised.

"Well, caretaker. My name's Shaun."

"Okay, Shaun. We're investigating an incident that took place on Monday. We'd just like to come in and ask a few questions, if that's alright?"

"You mean the body on the beach?" Mabel had been talking about it in the café yesterday. In fact, it was all anybody seemed to be speaking about.

"Yes," said Young, "can we come in?" Shaun thought she looked more like a teacher than a detective.

"Sure," Shaun said, stepping aside. "I don't know if I'll be much help, though." He thought again of the gun; so far, nobody had been able to tell him how the man had died.

"Were you anywhere near the promenade or Tower Gardens on Monday?" Chivers asked. He looked like a detective - two days worth of stubble and an open necked shirt.

"Yeah, I went to get some sealant from Homebase. I walked back by the seafront, so I saw the crowd and the tent on the beach. I don't really know any more than that, sorry."

The detectives settled into Shaun's old leather sofa. He hovered by the coffee table.

"That's fine," Young reassured him, "we're really just hoping for some information about the victim. No one has been able to formally identify him, yet."

"I'll see what I can do," said Shaun. He knew very few people outside of the building. "Can I get you anything?"

"A black coffee would be nice, thank you." When DS Young smiled, her eyes lit up behind her glasses.

"I'll have a glass of water, please" said Chivers.

While the kettle boiled, Shaun took the opportunity to hide a half-smoked spliff in the kitchen draw, just in case. He returned to the living room and handed Chivers his water, then set Young's mug on a coaster next to the Fortean Times .

"Thank you," she said, smiling at him again.

Shaun sat in the armchair. It didn't quite match the sofa. "How can I help?" he asked.

"We'd like you to take a look at a photograph of the deceased." Chivers replied. "It's a little unsettling."

"Okay."

"Let us know if you recognise anything," Young said, handing him the photograph.

The man in the picture had been beaten badly, but there was no sign of a gunshot wound. Shaun tried not to look relieved. The area around one eye was black and swollen. The man's jaw had been knocked off centre, and the left side of his shaved skull had been caved in. Shaun ran his hand through his hair, lingering where the man's wounds would be. The tattoo on the man's neck was obscured slightly by the angle of the photograph. Shaun could just make out the image; a blue eye looking up at him, drawn with long, Egyptian lines. He was certain it was a Wedjat. His thoughts turned to the eye etched onto his own arm, to the wheels within wheels that surrounded it. Since leaving the Brotherhood of the Stars, he had kept it blinded by long sleeves.

He realised he had been looking at the photograph for a long time.

"Do you recognise him?" asked DS Young.

"No, but this tattoo on his neck... it's the Eye of Horus, it's supposed to bring protection."

"Well, it didn't work out too well for the poor bastard," said DC Chivers.

"I guess not. You really have no idea who he was?"

 "We had a few people come forward, said they'd seen him with another male earlier in the day, but nothing more substantial than that. We believe they were both eastern European," DS Young replied. "We spent yesterday questioning labourers on the farms, but communities like that can be quite closed off. Nobody claimed to recognize him, so here we are."

Shaun knew little about the way the police were structured, and he was only just beginning to realise that Young was in charge. She was younger than Chivers, perhaps not much more than four or five years older than himself, but there was a sense of certainty about her, a confidence which suddenly made him feel like a child. He thought about his basement, the Coco Pops still infusing his milk by the CCTV monitor, and wondered where he would be in a few years time.

"Yeah, I've met a few eastern European guys at the café," he said, thinking of Popescu, "They don't seem to give much away. Do they bring much crime with them?"

He felt bad for asking, and was sure the question had come out wrong. He didn't want DS Young thinking he was like some of the skinheads who came to town in the summer, but he couldn't get the gun out his head - kept remembering its cold weight.

It was Chivers who answered. "The labourers aren't much trouble. Sometimes there's a little tension when somebody walks into the wrong bar on a Friday night, but that goes both ways. The real problem is with the gangs."

"Gangs?"

"It's mostly been dodgy booze and fags 'til now, but this incident could point to something bigger."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help. I don't... Well, I usually stay near the flats. On call, you know?"

"It's quite alright," said Young, "Is it just you down here?"

"Yes," Shaun replied, "just me."

DS Young and DC Chivers looked at each other. Young shuffled herself closer to Shaun.

"Have you lived here long?" she asked.

"About a year."

"It's quite dark."

"No windows," he said, "I try to keep it in order, though."

"I can see that." She smiled again. It was an official sort of smile. Shaun knew that, but he still smiled back.

"How old are you, mate?" DC Chivers asked him.

"Twenty-three, why?"

"Just wondered." He looked around. "I think this is better than where I was living at your age."

"That's a lot of UFO books," Young nodded towards a bookshelf loaded with books about ancient alien conspiracies and paranormal phenomena. "Do you like science-fiction?"

Shaun recognised the concerned tone of her voice. When his father had used it, he used to respond with sarcasm, but Young seemed nice. It felt good that someone like her might be worried about him.

"Not really, I'm more into history," he said.

"I studied history at Norwich," she replied.

"So you'll understand? I'm interested in stuff like the Nazca lines, or the secret chamber in the great pyramid. There's no way humans could have made those without help."

Young glanced at Chivers. "I did more modern British history, really," she said.

"How'd you land this gig then?" asked Chivers, changing the subject.

"Some people I was staying with were pretty self-sufficient. They taught me what they knew, a bit of carpentry, fixing stuff here and there - that sort of thing. This is easy work, really."

Chivers was apparently satisfied with this answer. "We should get going" he said, standing, "thanks for your time."

"And thanks again for the coffee," added Young.

"No problem," Shaun replied, walking them to the door. Before he could stop himself, he added: "Come back anytime."

The door closed behind them. Shaun's hands were shaking. He ran one of them through his hair, then took the cups back to the kitchen and returned to his congealing cereal. The flat suddenly felt small. It felt empty.

 

2.2 - Gracie

 

"But I don't want to go back!"

"Now sweetheart, everybody has to go to school," Sarah Greenwood said as she tried to put the toothbrush into Gracie's mouth, but Gracie shook her head and shut her lips tight because if she didn't brush her teeth she wouldn't have to leave the house. "We need to go in ten minutes and I haven't packed your bag. If you let me brush them I'll leave some chocolate in your lunchbox."

Gracie opened her mouth straight away.

"We have to look after our pearly whites, don't we?"

"Yesh," she said through the toothpaste.

"Yes what?"

Gracie knew that Sarah wanted her to say Yes Mummy, but she wouldn't ever because Sarah was making her go to school and anyway it wasn't the real truth. As soon as the toothbrush was back in the pot she started to moan again instead.

"But they tell you off for running and they hardly never go outside and, and, the girls only do drawing and fairy castle and the boys do fun stuff, they play knights and horses but they won't let me play because I'm a girl, and Miss Long is nasty to me and so is Charlotte Dawes because she says I'm strange so I kicked her and then I got put on the red and I wasn't allowed to play at golden time! I hate school, I want to go and see Mister Pop."

Sarah tugged on a cardigan and made Gracie put hers on too and gathered up their bags and Gracie's hand in hers as they left the flat. All the way down the corridor and the stairs Gracie dragged her feet and made them stomp, squeezing up her face in a pout.

"Now," Sarah turned around suddenly as they were about to step out into the street. She bent to look at Gracie properly and when her face came closer there were little purple bruises under her eyes that hadn't been there a few weeks ago. "You have to stop that. Stop sulking. Do you think that people on the road will look at you and see a lovely well-behaved girl, or a naughty bad-tempered one? Hm?"

Gracie stuck out her chin and replied, "They will see a sad girl."

Sarah blinked, and then quickly stood up and started walking again without taking her hand. Gracie had to take big steps and sometimes run to keep up with her. When they hurried through the school gate onto the playground the shouts of other children running around their parents' feet and playing games filled Gracie up with a sharp bad feeling, and Sarah stood still like she had forgotten what she was meant to be doing, just looking at them all. A moment later her mouth was pressing against Gracie's cheek and she was telling her to be good and have fun and make some friends today. Gracie took her bag and watched her not-parent rushing off.

"Hello, Gracie. Why are you playing on your own?"

The dragon whose head she had been about to chop off melted away, and the playground was dull and cold and safe from mortal peril just like it ought to be. Gracie dropped her sword-stick and turned to see who was talking to her because his voice sounded like someone she knew.

"Oh," she flinched a little bit when she saw the man standing on the other side of the criss-cross fence. "Hello Harry."

Her care worker bent one knee so he was Gracie's height and grinned his wide cat grin with his sneaky green eyes stretching out, smoothing back his tufty brown hair. Gracie looked about for a teacher, but nobody was this far out on the playground. Nobody could even see Harry because there was a hedge that joined up with the fence and hid him. It was thick and evergreen and hadn't been trimmed for a while - Gracie inspected it just to have something to be busy with. She noticed that it only fused properly with the fence because it was so overgrown; there was a gap hidden by loose branches that could easily be pushed through, all the way to the other side and the big real world. Her tummy did a little jump.

"I've just come over to see how you're doing," Harry said in the slow sing-song voice he always used especially for her, "just a quiet chat for you and me, on our own. I want to know what my favourite girl's been up to. It's very quiet at the home with you gone."

Silence.

"What were you playing? It looked exciting."

"Dragons," Gracie mumbled with her face turned half away from him, hands holding each other behind her back as she pointed one foot and twisted it left and right, left and right.

"You weren't that keen on dragons the last time I saw you. Have your mum and dad been reading you fairy tales?"

"Not my mum and dad."

Harry stopped trying to talk to her and just knelt and looked instead, his sneaky green eyes like dense stones putting their heaviness onto Gracie so she couldn't move away. The bell would go soon for the end of first break and that would break the spell. Soon.

"Have you made any friends at all?"

"Mister Pop."

"And who is he?"

"He lives across the hall. He's an old man. He tells me stories."

Gracie didn't want to talk to Harry but she did want to talk about Mister Pop. The green eyes got a bit bigger and then smaller again, and Harry nodded in a thoughtful way that she didn't like. In the middle of that silence the bell went, and Gracie could shrug Harry off like he was a stranger and run to line up. For once she was glad about school rules.

 

"Gracie Greenwood, go and put your name back on the red right now!"

They had been back in the classroom for five seconds and she was already in trouble. Charlotte Dawes and Emily Hayward had tried to stop her filing up between them in her right alphabetical place - they had pinched her and pulled her arm silently to get her out of the line. So she had done what the Mosul would have done: she chopped at Charlotte's neck in the hope that her head would come right off and there would be no more trouble. She had chopped pretty hard but it was no good and now Charlotte was crying and Miss Long was very angry indeed. Gracie rushed to the colour chart with her eyes stinging hot and her chest clenching up with angry breath, wondering if she would ever get to play at golden time and why nobody was any fair and why they thought they could boss her about anyway. She wasn't used to being in trouble. And then - the most terrifying thing that she could ever think of happened.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Hang on!" called Miss Long who was trying to herd the other children into correct sitting positions on the carpet. She was going to open the door. L'uomo nero had come for Gracie because she was naughty, and now Miss Long was going to let him in and he would take her away to a strange land and put a fairy girl in her place. It was all coming true just like Mister Pop said. Raw blind panic swallowed Gracie, her own name clutched in her hand halfway to the red section of the colour chart, and all she could think about was the hole in the hedge and the fact that the Reception classroom had a door that opened right out onto the playground and that Miss Long hadn't shut it yet because they had only just got in from break time.

Gracie watched as her teacher walked away from her, towards where l'uomo nero was waiting to be allowed across the threshold. The door handle turned, Miss Long peeked out into the corridor, and another voice could be heard in answer.

It asked for Gracie by name.

It was Harry's voice.

Her tummy felt like she'd been spinning too much and her hands felt cold and there was a tingly feeling crawling all over her back. Was it true? Was Mister Pop lying or was he trying to warn her all the time? Harry and l'uomo nero, the same?

She forgot to breathe all the way across the schoolyard so that by the time she reached the hedge her legs felt stiff from the frantic running and her head span a bit, but the grown ups hadn't even moved inside the classroom which meant they didn't know she was gone, and she might just be able to get away and not get caught at all. The evergreen leaves gave way just like they looked they would. She wriggled and huffed and suddenly was free, like Peter Rabbit scraping under Mister McGregor's garden gate. It didn't matter which way she ran as long as she ran fast and didn't look back.

 

2.3 - Anastasia

 

Anastasia pushed up the visor on her safety mask and peered at Shaun as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. With a jerk of the head she indicated for him to follow her through into the studio. "Don't touch anything. I need to kill the power."

"Have the police been to see you?" said Shaun.

"No," said Anastasia.

Shaun looked about him. It wasn't his idea of an artist's studio. Anastasia herself was dressed for a shift in a steelworks. Heavy duty power tools hung from the walls. Large vats bore the names of industrial chemicals. Gas cylinders were stacked in one corner.

"The murder," said Shaun. "The body on the beach. The police came to see me."

"Did you kill the man?" said Anastasia. She was removing safety masks, gloves, ear muffs, as she spoke.

"I don't know anything about him," said Shaun, his voice a little shrill. Anastasia lifted her head and smiled. Shaun might have felt foolish for failing to catch her teasing tone, but he was distracted by the sight of a group of mannequins, life sized figures of the sort used in store front window displays.

"Do you like my girls?" said Anastasia, as she unzipped the shapeless overall. She walked across to the bald forms.

"Well, they're..." said Shaun.

"I know what you're going to say," said Anastasia. "It's all a bit Anthony Gormley."

"No," said Shaun, immediately regretting it. Perhaps he was meant to say yes? He tried to cover his confusion by scrutinising the mannequins as though they were exhibits in a museum. Close up the figures were slightly disturbing. They lacked the joints that normal mannequins possess, and there was something about their texture that provoked unease. The surface was suggestive of pores, and hair follicles. Their female forms had small, pert breasts, but with their narrow, bony hips, concave stomachs, and sharp clavicles they looked more like starvelings than runway models.

"Getting the mold made was a bore," said Anastasia, "but they're turned out well. I'll use some as they are, and I might do some amputations or dismemberment on the others." The artist's animation was in contrast to the immobility of the figures, her wild red curls a rebuke to their smooth scalps. Nevertheless, as Shaun's gaze moved uneasily between the woman and her handiwork, there came the slow realisation that these forms were casts of Anastasia's own naked body.

"What else have you made?" said Shaun.

"Come over here, and you can see what I'm working on," said Anastasia. She led Shaun back to the rear of the workshop. It was brighter there, with natural daylight pooling in from high windows and a large skylight. There were tables covered with papers, and piles of sketchbooks and photographs.

"The police showed me a photo of the body. It nearly made me throw up," said Shaun.

"I think it's beautiful," said Anastasia.

"Beautiful? The poor guy's dead," said Shaun.

"Look," said Anastasia. She opened up a small sketch book. The first sketch bore some resemblance to the shape of the body on the beach, but it was also a series of delicate, elegant lines. The following sketches were variants on the theme, some more abstract, or decorative, others more realistic, but none of them was gruesome.

"They are beautiful," said Shaun. "You're good, aren't you?"

"Here," said Anastasia. She was pulling a large piece of paper from a folio. "This is probably closest to what I'll do for the final piece." If Shaun had not seen the sketches Anastasia had made from death on the beach, he would not have recognised this piece as a version of the dead man. It was intricate, but also a little more stylised than the sketches. The man's tattoo was remade here as the design on a robe. There was something about the colour, the pattern, the use of gilt, that struck Shaun as familiar.

"I've seen something like this before," said Shaun.

"Of course you have," said Anastasia. "I've got one here." She opened a drawer and pulled out a small rectangle of rough wood, and turned it for Shaun to see.

"Mr Popescu has got one just like that," said Shaun.

"The old man?" said Anastasia. "I suppose he would. This one's Serbian, but icons are found wherever there are Orthodox Christians. This is St. Matthew. What's Popescu got?"

"I don't know," said Shaun. "But he's got a lot of weird stuff. He's got loads of odd pictures of kids."

"That doesn't sound good," said Anastasia.

"I mean, the pictures are innocent enough, but there's so many of them," said Shaun. "And he's got loads of documents, papers. And he's got a gun."

"A gun?" said Anastasia. "What would he need with a gun?"

"It looks old. You know he was a policeman in Romania," said Shaun.

"That would explain it, I expect," said Anastasia.

"I don't know," said Shaun. "I mean, are things just coincidences, or are there connections? I find a gun, next thing I know, there's a body on the beach. You've got an icon, and it's just like Popescu's. Everyone's sneaking around, asking questions. I don't like it. It's like someone's messing with my head."

"Who's asking questions?" said Anastasia.

"Well, the police, for one thing," said Shaun.

"That's their job," said Anastasia.

"And Valerie," said Shaun.

"That unpleasant woman?" said Anastasia. "I wouldn't take her seriously. Got too much time on her hands."

"She's...," said Shaun.

"She's what?" said Anastasia.

"No," said Shaun. "It's nothing."

"It's obviously something," said Anastasia.

"She makes me tell her things," said Shaun. "I had to tell her about the gun."

"Small town nosy parker," said Anastasia. "Tell her lies. Make it all up."

"She's asking questions about you," said Shaun.

"She can read about me on Wikipedia. It's all true, apart from the thing about doing trials for the Arsenal Ladies team," said Anastasia. "I have no secrets."

"Everyone has secrets," said Shaun.

"Secrets are a pain in the arse," said Anastasia. "I need a fag break." Anastasia walked across to the side door of the workshop, Shaun trailing behind. He followed her into the narrow alleyway that led down to the street. As Anastasia lit up, they heard light, urgent footsteps in the street. They turned towards the sound and saw a small girl run by, her arms and legs pumping.

"That's Gracie," said Shaun.

"Yes," said Anastasia, "she's a curious little thing. I've got some sketches, but ideally I'd like to draw her sleeping."

"Do you draw everyone?" said Shaun.

"I've got a few of you. The poison thesp is interesting, too. All that face powder. She morphs into the clown on the beach," said Anastasia, drawing deeply on her cigarette.

"Can I see them? Those drawings," said Shaun, "I've never seen myself through an artist's eyes."

"And you won't now, either. When I sketch you in one of my notebooks, I'm not making a representation of you," said Anastasia. "If that's all I was doing, I'd be no better than one of those people on the prom doing bad charcoal drawings of tourists." She threw the remainder of her cigarette down and ground it out with a heavily booted foot. "I'll show you my Castleton Road book."

Shaun followed Anastasia through the studio once more, taking in again the cluster of life sized nude Anastasias. What had at first seemed chaotic was now beginning to take on a feeling of order, although to what skewed logic it conformed was beyond Shaun's understanding.

"So why do you draw people?" said Shaun. "Why do you make copies of yourself?"

Anastasia was looking through a set of sketchbooks. She laid two on the table.

"You mean," said Anastasia, "What is art?"

"I don't know what I mean," said Shaun. "I don't know what you mean. Sometimes I worry that I don't understand anything at all."

"You can do general maintenance, which is more than most people can manage," said Anastasia. "Now here's a sequence with the child." She showed a series of sketches of the little girl talking to the old man. "I want two things from these. Their hands, and their eyes." The following sketches were of hands and eyes. The old man's hands, emerging, bone, vein, and fold, from a threadbare sleeve. The child's plump, perfect skin, like the hand of a Raphael cherub. The eyes, Popescu's hooded, heavy, almost lashless; Gracie's round, clear, indecently lashed, and somehow knowing.

"These are beautiful, Anastasia," said Shaun.

"These are the nuts and bolts," said Anastasia. "Now this is what I do with them." Anastasia picked out a larger drawing. "Eventually they'll be part of the triptych."

"Will I be part of it?" said Shaun,

"I don't know, yet," said Anastasia. "Here's a few of you. I might use that one. I like the shape."

"These look more like us than the photographs do," said Shaun. "How do you do that? It's like you can see our souls."

"It's worse than that, Shaun," said Anastasia. "I can do what I like with your souls."

 

2.4 - Mungo Joey

 

Mungo sighed. Audiences used to have much higher standards of entertainment. There was a time when people used to gather for gravity-defying gymnastics, women being sawn in half and blokes going head-to-head with a lion armed with nothing but a footstall.

Now all it took was a dead body.

Since the arrival and departure of the SOCO tent on the beach there had been a surge of activity on the pier. The crowds started on the beach but soon realised that the best shots could be captured from above so they relocated to the pier, desperate to snap a photo of incriminating footprints that had long since faded in the sand.

The crime scene junkies were a diverse group. There was the local media, eager to capitalise on the biggest news story to hit Skegness since the beach bagged its Blue Flag. There were the locals who wanted a nosey, mostly out of fear that they were missing out on something. There were the tourists who couldn't believe their luck. Any holiday-makers disappointed that they couldn't afford Benidorm this year now had a murder to write home about. Theories on a postcard! And, of course, there were the hobbyists, the sadists, who flock across the country to buzz around a murder investigation like flies around a corpse.

Yet, despite this increased footfall, Mungo's hat was emptier than usual. A drunken clown was evidently not as appealing as a dead body.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to start performing. He had made a fair share of coins from sitting on his backside for a good twelve years. Why break the habit of a lifetime? He would just have to make cut-backs, that was all. Perhaps he would forego the mushy peas when ordering his fish tonight. Well, there was a recession on, after all.

Mungo closed his eyes and daydreamed of candy floss.

 

"Are you supposed to be a clown?"

Mungo jumped. There was a little girl standing by his bench. Where did she spring from? Mungo grunted and chose to roll over, hoping that she would go away.

She didn't.

"Because you look like a clown."

Mungo sighed. He honked his nose by way of response. "What gave me away?"

"If you're a clown, where is your circus?" the girl asked.

I'm a circus of one, he thought, and took a swig of Wonky Donkey from a plastic bottle the size of a fire extinguisher. "The circus has left town."

"No it hasn't. My parents took me to see Doctor Delirium."

"Doctor Delirium's Fun-Time Circus is not a circus. Far too much break-dancing and pyrotechnics and 3D glasses." This town has not seen a real circus for twelve years, he added to himself. Not since the fire.

"Do you live on that bench?" the girl asked, changing track.

"No, this is my office. Now go away, I'm trying to work."

Mungo returned to his default position: lying on his back with his hands on his stomach and his eyes shut to the outside world. His curly green wig provided an ample pillow.

"You don't look like you're working. You look like you're sleeping."

"Then maybe you should keep the noise down."

The girl went quiet. The gentle sound of the breeze and the steady murmur of the crime scene junkies returned. Had she gone? Mungo waited a few moments then relaxed. Finally, some peace and -

"You should learn how to juggle."

Mungo jerked in surprise. The girl had edged even closer. He groaned and rubbed his face in exasperation, white face paint smearing on his whitish gloves.

"You would get more money if you learned how to juggle," the girl persisted. "Blind Man Hugh juggles on the promenade and he gets loads of money. I once saw someone give him a fiver."

"Good for him. He can see through that blindfold of his, you know."

"What about magic? Clowns are supposed to know magic tricks. Three Cup Colin makes his pea disappear every time."

That's because Three Cup Colin is a con man, thought Mungo.

The girl continued. "Can you make things disappear?"

"I can make this donut disappear." Mungo presented a deep-fried donut from his paper bag and sent it swiftly vanishing down his gullet. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside and coated in delicious sugar. Whoever said Paris was the culinary capital of the world had never been to Skegness, Mungo considered and not for the first time.

"My mummy says donuts are bad for you," the girl said but Mungo detected the longing in her voice.

"You better stick to cous cous then," Mungo replied, licking his fingers.

"So you can't make anything disappear?"

"I'll make you disappear over those railings in a minute."

"You're very grumpy. I thought clowns were supposed to be happy."

"And I thought children were supposed to be scared of clowns. Look, what do you want from me‽ I'm trying to put my feet up. I've been hard at work all day."

"I'm hiding from my friend Harry," the girl said. "Have you seen him?"

"No, I'm relieved to say. I'm not sure I could endure interrogation from another child."

"Harry isn't a child."

Mungo frowned. He didn't want to get involved but he heard himself say, "No?"

"No, Harry is a grown-up. He used to be my care worker and my friend. He took me on long walks in the woods and gave me piggy-back rides if the ground was too muddy. But lately he has been acting really strange."

 "Oh?" Mungo was fully awake now.

"He came to see me at the school fence yesterday. Harry said he had to because I can help him with something and he doesn't want my parents to know."

Mungo stared at the girl, sobering up quite quickly despite the cider's best efforts.

"And then today, Harry knocked on my classroom door to fetch me from school. But I was scared so I ran away."

Mungo was sitting up by this point, red clown lips hanging open.

"Do your parents know that you're out here?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I crawled under the school fence."

"Bloody hell."

The girl gasped. "You're not supposed to say that."

Mungo raised his eyebrows. "And little girls aren't supposed to run away from school."

"But I had to! The teachers wouldn't understand. No one listens to anything I say. Mummy and daddy and Miss Bradbury and Laura -"

"Who's Laura?"

"My big sister. None of them understand me. They all treat me like a baby. But I'm five years old! I wish Harry wasn't acting so odd. At least Harry treats me like a grown-up."

I bet he does , thought Mungo. Distant memories were surfacing about his First Life, the most wretched of his three lives, which thankfully ended at the age of sixteen when he ran off to join the circus. He did not like to remember his First Life. Suffice it to say that a privileged upbringing and an abusive childhood are not mutually exclusive.

"Look, little girl - "

"Gracie."

"What?"

"Gracie Greenwood. That's my name."

"Seriously? It sounds like a stage name. Maybe you should try clowning."

Gracie folded her arms.

"Anyway, Gracie, you need to listen to your parents and teachers. You shouldn't run away from school. If I hadn't overslept, I would be at First Plaice right now -"

- ordering delicious fried fish, he fantasised, coated in crunchy batter and sat atop a heap of soft golden chips -

"- and the rest of this pier is far too preoccupied to notice you. No-one would help if Harry found you here. You'll be safer with your teachers. They won't let Harry take you without your parents" consent. You need to head back to school."

"No! I'm never going back there! You're as bad as everyone else! Mummy and daddy made me come to this place and leave all my old friends and teachers behind and I hate it! Mummy tells me to stop whining and daddy is always working and Laura doesn't play with my anymore because she is too busy with all her vampire friends and none of the children at school like my favourite films - they haven't even heard of Labyrinth! - and now Harry is acting all strange and I just don't know what to do!" As an encore, she added: "And I hate crazy golf!"

And with that, Gracie stamped her foot on the pier. THUD! Her face was red and she was out of breath. She had been shouting towards the end and her eyes were full of hot, angry tears.

Mungo shrunk back into the grooves of his bench as far as possible. He had unconsciously grabbed his polka dot briefcase and clutched it to his chest like a shield. His mouth hung open like the cod he had planned to purchase with his hatful of spare change.

This had been the longest and strangest conversation he had had all year. Underneath his green curly wig, his brain scrambled around for a suitable response. He settled on -

"Here. Have a donut."

Gracie was confused. She recuperated a little of her breath. "But... my mummy says..."

"Look, do you want the donut or not?"

Gracie nodded and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She selected a donut from the bag and sat herself on Mungo's bench to eat it.

Being a well-mannered host, Mungo did not want his guest to eat alone so he helped himself to a donut and the two chewed thoughtfully in silence for quite some time. When Gracie finished the first donut, Mungo thrust the bag at her again to prolong the silence for a little longer.

As they ate, Mungo noticed a figure walking amongst the crowds of crime scene junkies. It was a man and he appeared to be looking for someone. He wandered the crowds for quite some time, spinning on the spot and scratching his head. Eventually he swore and strode off, back towards the promenade. The man never thought to glance over at the drunken clown sharing donuts with his new companion.

Not today Harry, thought Mungo.

And then Mungo was vaguely aware that something strange was happening. He was smiling. Not just a smile consisting of red face-paint but an actual smile. He felt a zephyr of good feeling breeze through his chest. This was a long-forgotten emotion. What was going on? And then he realised what was happening. He was happy.

Mungo had helped a little girl and it had made him feel good. It was the first time he had felt joy about anything other than fried food or extra-strength cider since his final bow at the circus. It was nice. It was also incredibly unnerving. He was a solo act, after all.

He looked at the little girl next to him, concentrating intensely on getting every last grain of sugar from her fingertips. She was sat on his bench and he hadn't even objected. Even more alarmingly, he had shared his food with her! What was happening?

And then he knew. Oh no. I've become a circus of two.

 

 

2.5 - Tim

 

Tim put most of Mr Popescu's groceries away, but deliberately left a tin of loose tea, a box of sugar lumps, and two jars of anchovies out on the kitchen counter, as if he was still busy. Tim quietly opened every cupboard in the kitchen, but found nothing new. He already knew the kinds of things Mr Popescu ordered from Barron's.

He tried one of the drawers. He opened it slowly, so that Mr Popescu and the talkative, posh-sounding woman he was having a conversation with in the next room would not hear him. The woman was asking the old man about his time in Romania, when he had been a policeman. Tim imagined Mr Popescu as a plainclothes detective, in a trench coat and a hat, rather than just a constable who directed traffic. It was annoying that the woman's voice was much louder than Mr Popescu's. He could hear all the questions clearly enough, but he only caught bits and pieces of the answers. The contents of the drawer were the usual, boring stuff: cutlery in a dirty plastic tray, a box of matches, an apple-corer, two corkscrews, a bottle-opener with the word URSUS in red enamel on it, a thing for lighting a gas-ring which didn't work. Tim gently pulled the drawer all the way open. At the back was some string, old biros, a bottle of blue-black fountain-pen ink, and a rusty tin with a picture of a lady in an old-fashioned hat and dress on it.

Tim opened the tin. The inside smelt of dust, like Mr Popescu's flat. It contained a set of black and white photographs, held together with an elastic band. The corners of most of the photographs were bent, because the tin was slightly too small for them. Tim removed the elastic band, and it broke with age. The photographs were of children: boys and girls, who mostly looked about eight or nine. The boys had very short hair. They all looked miserable. Each photo was about the size of a postcard, and had twelve pictures on it, with a white border between them. Under each picture was an 8-digit number, apparently not in any sequence. There were about fifty photos. They looked almost like they were for playing some horrible, Communist era card game.

The kitchen door creaked, and Tim put the photos down on the counter so they were hidden by his body. The woman came in.

"Are you having some kind of problem, young man?"

"No. I'm fine, thanks."

"Why are you taking such a long time?"

"I've nearly finished, but I noticed that the hinges on this cupboard are loose. I was looking to see if Mr Popescu had a screwdriver so that I could tighten them."

"So you have finished?"

"Nearly."

"Well, get a move on, please."

"Yes, miss." The woman gave him a sideways look, but Tim's face was blank.

Tim said goodbye to Mr Popescu on his way out with the empty trays, but got no reaction. The old man looked as if his mind was in another place and time. The sun went behind a cloud and the colour seemed to fade from him, like he was turning into an old photograph.

  Outside the flat, Tim placed the trays gently on the floor and stood with his ear close to the door. He caught the word Ceausescu. Mr Popescu was speaking more clearly, now, and was describing how the Romanian Communist Party had lost control of the country. Tim listened and waited for the conversation to drift back to Mr Popescu's own life, and what he had seen and done when he was a detective.

"Oi, you." Tim lurched round to see a tall girl with dyed red hair and a nose-stud. Tim put his finger up to his lips.

"Are you ear-wigging?" the girl continued, at the same volume. "And don't shush me. This isn't a bloody library, you know."

"I know, but I'm trying to hear what they are saying," whispered Tim. "It might get interesting again in a minute." The girl moved next to Tim, and joined him in listening.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered. "He said, 'Securitate'. That sounds like the Romanian secret police."

"I know," said Tim.

"Mr Popescu wasn't in the secret police."

"I know. He was in the ordinary police."

"He gets parcels from Romania from time-to-time."

"How do you know?"

"Because the postman asks us to look after them if doesn't get an answer from Mr Popescu's."

"No, I mean how do you know they are from Romania?"

"Because they've got a Romanian postmark, you dick-brain. You need a stronger deodorant, by the way. Lifeguard is a good one." Tim frowned. He could feel his cheeks starting to get hot. "At least you don't soak yourself in aftershave like most boys. I remember where I've seen you, now. You work at Barron's, don't you? I thought there was something about you which reminded me of bog roll and Tampax." Tim looked round desperately for some means of getting the girl to shut up. He did want to speak to her, but not there, not while he was trying to concentrate on Mr Popescu's conversation with the posh woman, and not while she was doing her best to make him blush. She was wearing a skinny T-shirt with a wide neck. Tim could see one of her bra-straps. The T-shirt was white but the bra strap was greyish-blue, and looked as it if had been put through the wrong wash. Tim wondered if the girl's breasts had reached the full extent of their development.

"I think we'd better move, before some-one notices us," said Tim, picking up the trays.

"Why are you so interested in Mr Popescu?"

"I want to find out about what he got up to in Romania, when he was a policeman. I want to find out why he came here, whether it was anything to do with the Communists, or gangsters and stuff."

"I see. My name's Laura, by the way." Tim took the photograph he had removed from the rusty tin out of his pocket, and showed it to Laura.

"I found this. There were about fifty others like it. I want to know what it means and why Mr Popescu has it." Laura stared with rapt attention, and stroked her fingertips slowly over the photograph.

"Wow. That looks scary. Is it something to do with the war?"

"I don't know."

"Who are all those children? What happened to them?"

"I don't know. That's what I want to find out."

Tim walked along the corridor and, as he descended the stairs, realised that Laura was following him.

"You're a bit shy, aren't you, whatever your name is?" "Not again," thought Tim. "Have you got a girlfriend?"

"Not at the moment."

"Does that mean you've never had a girlfriend?" Tim said nothing. "Ah, I see," said Laura. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"You don't look it. Do you work full time?"

"Yes."

"What's Mr Barron like to work for?"

"All right."

"Good. He always looks at me as if he thinks I'm going to steal something, and I've noticed him perving at my tits sometimes." Laura opened her mouth and pretended to stick a finger down her throat. Tim noticed that she had very white teeth and a brace on both jaws. "What time do you knock off work today?"

"I'm not sure. That was the last delivery for today."

"Great. You can take me for a coffee, then."

 

Laura laughed her head off when she saw Tim's tricycle.

 

2.6 - Valerie

 

Valerie felt like they were making progress. Yes, the boy's intrusion had been irritating, but on reflection, she'd have needed some time to soften the old man up anyway. She'd been in here an hour now and it was time to move on from this pleasant chit chat.

She'd dressed carefully, as if for a performance. Soft lilac cashmere jumper, black trousers and black suede ankle boots. Her hair, dyed an auburn-chestnut colour, was in its habitual fat doughnut bun but still shone in the pale light coming through the net curtains. She knew she looked good, a shot of glamour contrasting against the dingy surroundings of the old man's flat.

She'd done a spot of reconnaissance on Popescu since Shaun had spilled the beans about what he'd found in the flat. Poor boy, she'd really had to press him before he came out with all of it. Thinking he could just get away with telling her about a few letters, silly thing! Clearly that was never going to be enough. She could tell he was hiding something but he did his best to keep up the bravado for a while. She didn't let up. The number of times he'd run his hand over his hair! Eventually he'd told her all of it. She'd leave him be for a while now, he'd served his purpose. There were more interesting folk to find out about.

Her eyes strayed to the kitchen drawers. The knowledge that the gun was there was quite distracting. It wasn't like she needed to see it. She mustn't keep staring out there.

Razvan stood up.

"Could I get you another drink?" he asked. He looked towards the front door, frowning at the voices outside.

"Another coffee would be lovely," said Valerie.

"I was wondering if you wanted something stronger?" Razvan brandished a bottle and couple of shot glasses. "I think I'll have one myself, it's getting to be an indulgence in my old age, so if you'd care to join me?"

"Don't mind if I do," smiled Valerie. They clicked the glasses together.

"Chin, chin," she said. She downed it in one and placed the glass on the table. The old man looked a little surprised.

"Sorry, it's from my early days in theatre," she explained. "You learnt to drink hard." He nodded.

"I must say, I didn't expect someone from your country to be a whiskey drinker," said Valerie, sitting back and crossing one slim leg over the other. "No, I must say I always thought you all knocked back vodka. Of course I've never been to that part of the world myself. You do hear stories though don't you, in the media and so forth. I got the impression it was quite dangerous over there? Is that actually the case?"

"Perhaps you are thinking of organised crime," said Razvan. "It gives my country such a bad name; the details slip out because it sounds so..." he paused.

"Sordid? But interesting." She supplied. "Everyone's fascinated by the idea of gangsters aren't they? Capone and Bonnie and Clyde and the movies. Even if reality is different."

"Yes, the idea is much more noble than reality," he replied. "Coppola and Brando have much to answer for. I was a police officer back in Romania, you know."

"Really?" said Valerie. Damn it, was this going to be why he had a gun? Nostalgia for his old crime fighting days? She didn't want to be wasting time on him if this was the case. Still, she'd stick with it for a while longer, just in case.

"Yes, in Mangalia. Believe me, I saw nothing noble about the crime by those people. It was all fear and power. Mess and blood. Trying to get rich quick on the back of others. Nothing noble."

Valerie made sympathetic noises. This was better, this had potential. Where was this leading?

"Terrible. I imagine whole families were affected?"

"Yes."

"And how was that to manage? For the police?"

"Very difficult. You're fighting corruption within at the same time as you're fighting criminals without. There was a lot of bribery, a lot of collaboration."

"You knew the gangsters? Worked with them?"

At this he put his glass down on the table. There was something in his eyes, a cold flinty look, and she felt a shudder go through her. She was glad she was no longer holding her glass.

"I had ways of doing my job," was all he said. He continued to stare at her. The stare, one of suppressed fury, reminded her very much of her last confrontation at home, the one that had made her seek refuge in this remote place. She couldn't help it, she knew she shouldn't but her eyes slipped past him to glance at the kitchen drawers again. His eyes narrowed. Did he, could he, know that she knew about the gun? She started to panic a little. He poured himself a second drink, waved the bottle at her. She shook her head.

This is silly, she told herself. Calm down. She forced herself to do a breathing technique she learned years ago when she needed to overcome stage fright. She smiled at him. Change the subject. Find a way to get out of there without raising any more suspicion.

"How do you find it here? It must be quite different for you in this out of the way town."

"Yes, it's quieter obviously. But there's a lot going on when you take time to watch people, yes? You must see this too, I think."

"I do find others fascinating, I must say. It's par for the course, I think, in acting, being interested in people."

"There's quite a mix of people here, more than you'd expect. And yet you stand out. With your appearance and the car. I often see you when I'm on my way to play chess at the cafe."

"Ah yes the Figaro. Sweet little thing." She shifted in her chair. "It's useful to have for when I need to get away, for work. I still have a few irons in the fire, I don't see myself staying here forever."

"I would think not." He smiled back at her and the hard look had completely disappeared. Had she imagined it altogether?

Just then there was the sound of angry voices outside the door.

"I can't imagine what you were thinking, Gracie," a plaintive female tone said. "Why do something so silly? It's really disappointing." There was no reply.

"We've gone to all this fuss," said a man's voice. "I'm afraid school's something you've got to deal with but if you're unhappy you should come to us and talk about it. Running away isn't going to solve anything."

"Oh dear," said Razvan. "My little friend from across the hall sounds like she's in trouble."

Valerie raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"Gracie," he explained. "She lives in number eight. They're not her parents. Adopted. She's a nice little thing, comes over here quite often to hear my stories. I lure her in with tales of Romanian myth and legend!"

"How imaginative," said Valerie.

"I like children," he said. He ran one hand over his trousers and looked towards the door again as the sound of Gracie's parents faded behind their closed door.

"Do you have any?" he asked.

"We did try for several years," said Valerie. "No luck though. I miscarried three times. I don't know what it was, a combination of my age and lifestyle perhaps. I don't know. After the third it was just too hard to keep trying. We didn't talk about it, just stopped altogether. Of course Eric had a daughter from his first marriage, my step-daughter Jeannie, but we've never really hit it off. I think the divorce probably affected her - she was only eight when it happened - and she's never warmed to me. It would have been lovely to have children though, if only to have someone now. I'm all alone."

She stopped, she'd gone further than she'd intended. It was the earlier panic, making her garble and not pay her usual careful attention to what she was saying.

"What about you?" she said, trying to gain back some ground. "Do you have any children?"

"No, no, we couldn't have any. Not after..."

There was a knock at the door. Popescu got to his feet, emitting a slight grunt as his knees cricked. His soft soled shoes made a shushing noise as he shuffled over to the door and opened it.

"Good afternoon," said the young woman standing outside. She flashed a badge at them both. "I'm DS Young, Lincolnshire Police. I wonder if I might ask you a few questions about the incident on the beach?"

 

2.7 - Mabel

 

Mabel started this Thursday night show the same way she always started practice: swallowing a wire coat hanger. That's how one learns how to swallow a sword, practicing with the flexible coat hanger before attempting the inflexible blade of a sword.

She stood on the stage of the Sand Castle, her back straight and her head tilted backwards, ready to finish the first part of her act by suddenly bringing her head forward, causing the coat hanger to bend inside her throat.

Mabel brought her head forward and bowed for the applause that didn't come, removing the bent coat hanger and displaying it to the uncaring crowd. 

As she put the coat hanger down, picking up the three stiletto daggers she would use in the next part of her act, Mabel wondered why she even bothered performing. Every now and then the thought crossed her mind, especially in nights like this one. Well, a girl's got to eat. And this is definitely better than waitressing.

She returned to the centre of the stage in her off-the-shoulder black and red leotard. Black, stiletto-heeled court shoes and fishnet tights worn under striped, black and white stockings completed her stage look tonight.

She extended her arms forward, displaying the daggers to the audience. This is a sad place... Mabel thought, as she looked around.

The Sand Castle looks exactly like a castle from the outside. The inside looks like a warehouse someone decided to decorate with cheap looking medieval props rather than storing them. There are as many unicorn and lion embroidered banners, stuffed stag heads, iron-wrought chandeliers, and fake torches as there are tables in the Sand Castle.

Mabel straightened her back and bent her head backwards, going into her swallowing stance, and inserted the first dagger down her throat. She paused for a moment and proceeded to swallow the second, and then the third. With the hilts of the three daggers coming out of her mouth, she bowed again. And again indifference was the public's response.

She removed the daggers from her throat, one after the other, and sighed.

Even though Mabel didn't perform for the applause, she still wanted it. Any performer who tells you they don't care about the audience's appreciation is lying.

It had taken Mabel over two years to learn how to eat fire, four years to be able to swallow a sword - and still would take her a couple more years to master the art - and she didn't even know how much time she had spent learning how to care for and perform with snakes. All this effort not only went unappreciated tonight - it went entirely unnoticed.

The dying art of sword swallowing, which Mabel helped preserve, is a dangerous and unpleasant one. It takes focus and dedication. It takes love. It is supposed to show people what one can do when one puts heart and mind to it, Mabel thought, it is supposed to bring awe and amazement to ordinary lives.

Mabel put the daggers down and picked up the sword for the final part of her act. Making sure she was in the centre of the stage she looked at the small, indifferent public at the Sand Castle - holidaymakers looking for a cheap lager and a nice carvery and locals looking for a drink, some company, or an escape from their wives or routines - and sighed once more. So sad. These people have no sense of wonder. Or civility. At least it's not always like this...

She assumed her swallowing stance, brought the sword up and licked the blade, then started sliding it down.

Most sword swallowers don't actually swallow the sword, but rather relax the throat enough to allow the blade to slide down all the way to the stomach.

The sword goes into the mouth, behind the epiglottis, past the hyoid bone and the pharynx, behind the larynx, and down the oesophagus through the upper oesophageal sphincter. Once past the sphincter the sword passes swiftly with the aid of gravity, straightening the flexible oesophagus in its way down.

 But it's not all roses: the sword passes between the lungs, only millimetres away from the heart and the aorta, and past the liver in its path to the stomach. Each and every step must be done correctly and precisely, for one slightly wrong move could cause a scrape, a cut, or a puncture.

Mabel had performed every step with accuracy, and stood on the stage with seventeen inches of metal within her.

She bit hard on the blade and removed the hilt of the sword, a dangerous move designed to demonstrate the sword isn't retractable. Without the protection of the hilt, only Mabel's teeth prevented the sword from sliding all the way down, killing her in the process.

One... Two... Three, Mabel counted the seconds before reattaching the hilt, which she did deftly; and, with a flourish, she removed the sword. One last bow out of habit - and for the integrity of the performance - and she would be done.

That's when something unexpected happened: somebody applauded.

Mabel looked around startled, trying and failing to locate the source of the applause. It is probably Nell, Mabel thought with both affection and disappointment as she gathered her things and prepared to leave the stage.

Nell oftentimes stopped by the Sand Castle on Thursdays to support Mabel and bitch about work over a couple of drinks. There is always something to complain about when you work serving people. Mabel smirked at the thought, making her way backstage to change.

As she replaced her costume with a long-sleeved black dress, Mabel hoped no creeps would try to pick her up tonight. Even when they don't notice my act they always seem to notice my ass... I don't need this today; the night was already a bust. She grabbed her things and headed to the bar. Well, not entirely, she smiled, remembering the single applause.

Mabel walked assertively, easily finding her way past the pool table and around the many chairs and tables of the Sand Castle. It always surprised her just how ugly the tartan carpet was. She moved past the arcade machines and sat on one of the empty stools by the bar.

"Hey, Dan!"

"Mabel, good show" the bartender greeted her. "The usual?"

"Yes, please," she replied, mentally enumerating the many reasons why Dan was the perfect bartender. He is nice and charming, and a good listener. He has a good memory and he knows his drinks. And his size and broken nose combined do tend to discourage trouble...

"There you go," he placed the drink in front of her.

"Say, Dan," she paused to take a sip, "have you seen Nell?"

"The Yank? No, haven't seen her tonight."

Mabel was surprised.

"I thought she'd be here. I sure could use some venting," she finished her drink and motioned for another, "this week has been a drag."

Dan fixed her a refill and leaned sympathetically on the counter.

"Come on," he said encouragingly, "get it out of your chest."

Mabel beamed.

"You know, just your usual uncaring crowd here," she moved her head around the room, "and your demanding crowd there..."

He nodded understandingly.

"Plus," she continued, "there was the whole harassment of that man coming by Sammy's injured and what not..."

She drank and leaned slightly over the counter.

"Mind you, that didn't put Shaun and Mr Popescu off their chess game... Those two and their game," she giggled.

Dan smiled back at her and turned to look at the man who had sidled over and was sitting on the stool next to Mabel.

Mabel's smile disappeared as she noticed the man was looking intently at her. Great, she thought, just what I didn't want!

"Could I have another one?"

The man asked Dan, pointing to his glass, and then turned his attention back to Mabel.

"One has to admire a girl that can hold her liquor and her sword," the man said with a strong accent.

She couldn't help but smile. Dan served the man his drink and made himself scarce.

"I couldn't help but hear you saying Popescu," he continued, "that's a Romanian surname, a fine surname."

"I suppose it is," she answered, "it has a nice ring to it."

"Allow me to introduce myself," he extended a hand, "Mihai Radu."

Mabel extended her own hand to shake his, and was surprised when he kissed it instead. She took a moment to find her words.

"Please to meet you, Mihai. I'm Mabel."

"It is a pleasure to meet someone who practices the ancient art of sword swallowing."

Mabel smiled. There was something so formal and old-fashioned about this man's way to speak and move - it was almost theatrical. Yet somehow, at the same time, he looked just so genuine, so open and kind, that Mabel couldn't help but to feel a certain fondness for him.

"I grew up in a circus," his open way made her feel like sharing, which was not usual, "and there was this guy, Anton, who swallowed swords. I've always admired that, and I wanted to be able to do it as well."

"And now, look at you," he said proudly.

"Yeah," she blushed, which was even less usual, "it took me some years, but now I can do it too."

He nodded, smiling, and took a sip from his glass.

"I am Romanian," he paused for a moment waiting for a reaction. She nodded and smiled, unsurprised. His accent had given him away.

"You said you grew up in a circus. I don't know if you know but my people practically invented the circus."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. It is. The circus life is a noble one, bringing wonder and magic to - how do you say? - to the day-to-day of people."

Mabel couldn't believe her ears. Someone who actually understands!

"That is it," she was beaming, "that is it precisely."

He was tall and brunette, with intelligent green eyes, and expressive, elegant hands. He was a handsome man, slender but strong, with an attractive face. She looked at his head more intently. He had an injury.

"You are hurt."

He looked confused.

"Oh, that," he touched his head with his right hand and smiled dismissively, "I had a nightmare the other day. There were no more circuses, and I was so startled I fell on my head."

Mabel smiled at the joke, but shifted uncomfortably on her stool. She had had enough of injured men this week.

"In my language," he tried to restart the conversation, "we call people who do what you do înghititorul de säbii."

Mabel was startled. She had heard these words before.

He looked at her quite pointedly.

"Tell me," he said seriously, "who is this friend of yours, Popescu?"

 

 

 

2.8 - Bobby

 

Bobby looked around the gym for, what he hoped, was the last time. After more than twenty years, he could barely stand the stench of it. It was a place devoted to celebrating failure in all guises. Failed boxers were only the expression of a deeper, more fundamental failure of people devoid of humanity. It was a place that had never known a moment of compassion.

Lewis had loved it.

"It's yours if you want it, Marcus. I can't say I think you should take it. People like you and me...well, we're just barely holding on, if you know what I mean. Still, you were Lewis' man."

Marcus shot him an odd glance and seemed on the verge of chastising him, then quietly "No, I don't want anything to do with it. Give it to Tom."

"Right," said Bobby, "How about we have a few drinks before the barbarians storm the gates? I feel like getting drunk."

"You won me over with the hard-sell, Sweets. What are we drinking to?"

"Success to crime, young blood. What else is there?"

 

Inebriation stayed out of reach for both of them. Instead, the more they drank, the more irritable they became. By the time the first bout started they could hardly stand the sight of each other.

Marcus finally ended their shared misery by mumbling something about going ringside. Bobby waved him off with overt relief. There were only a couple dozen spectators in the gym. Mostly bookies, managers, the chronically bloodthirsty, and a light dusting of general hoodlums. Marcus was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

The fight was everything he had hoped to avoid. Although he never quite figured out which fighter was White and which was Evans, he could say with great certainty that either White or Evans plastered the ring with his opponent in an unrelenting torrent of raw brutality. The spectators showed their appreciation by heaping verbal abuse upon both fighters in correlation with the win-loss ratio of their wagers. It was old hat to Bobby. Hell, it was old hat to anyone who had ever placed a bet. The only consistent winners were the bookmakers, but he'd never met a gambler that would believe it. A bookie's odds weren't reflective of the likelihood an event would occur. They were incentives to make bad bets to offset money riding on favourites. Bookies were the MBAs of the underworld. They profited on the artificial margins they created and the ten percent juice from losing bets. Most gamblers knew they were being set up. They didn't care. They had systems, tips from the stables, divine inspirations. Any justification would do. The rush was all that mattered.

His irritation was devolving into general disgust. If he left now he could avoid the spectacle of another bloodbath in the ring. The ubiquity of tracksuits and trainers in the crowd was getting under his skin, too. Grown men without the vaguest sense of decorum....

"You're glaring at the crowd, Sweets. It's not being well received."

Bobby bared his teeth at Marcus.

"They started it."

"They're admiring your suit, Bobby."

"It's right off the rack, if you can believe it. I'm drunker than I think I am, Marcus. Tell me I'm not surrounded by members of the English Defence League."

"Sweets, you scare the living shit out of most of them, and scared people do stupid things, especially in groups. You're working your temper up over nothing. Last time this happened I got a promotion."

Bless his evil, twisted heart. He looks so earnest. The man is going to make me laugh and then I'll have no choice but to kill him.

To hell with it, Bobby thought, as he leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. It was the best gift he'd had in years.

"Alright, Captain. You win. Tell me what you really want."

"We can't win a war with any of the Eastern European or Russian boys. Our organization isn't built for that kind of thing," Marcus said without preamble.

"No," Bobby said, disinclined to elaborate.

"It could be. The freelance muscle we use for bouncers and security could be taken on full time."

"Marcus, this is Skegness and I'm not much more than a jumped up lender of last resort. I'm not looking to re-enact 'The Godfather'."

"Fair enough, but I'd like to bring a few more bodies on board."

"Your call. Anything else before I leave?"

"The lady doctor propping up that wall has been staring at you."

"That's not unusual. I'm strikingly handsome with exotic features. Am I concerned with her staring?"

"Concerned? No. She's wondering if she should approach you. I'll be behind her if she does."

"I'm starting to find you tolerable again."

"Same here, Sweets."

"I really am leaving now. It's a school night, after all."

"You can't."

"You'd be surprised at the things I can do, laddie. Tell me why I can't leave before the last of my patience is lost."

"Tom is here and waiting to talk to you," Marcus said.

Bobby sighed the sigh of the deeply weary.

"Send him over, Marcus. But I'm going home after we talk. Thwart me at your peril."

"Wilco, Sweets."

 

 "Marcus said you wanted to see me, Sweets," the unfortunately named Tom Collins said.

Bobby gazed thoughtfully at the man. He was a decent enough sort for one of Lewis' cronies. He held no particular grudge against him. It was simply...his turn.

"We've known each other a long time, Tom," Bobby said.

"I remember when you came to Skegness, Sweets. A holy terror. You ran all the little crews out of town and bought the ones that didn't run. I remember you saying that the police never stopped a single crime, they only showed up after to take their reports."

"You remember that?" Bobby asked.

"Like it was yesterday, Sweets. You'd only been discharged from the Marines about a year, I think. We thought you could walk on water. Those were special days, Bobby."

"None of it really worked out, did it?"

"I wouldn't say that, Bobby. We did some good things. People don't change, though. We see them at their worst down here. Always at their very worst," Tom said, then fell silent.

"I'm done with boxing, Tom. Done with boxing, done with the gym, done with the people. I'm fifty four years old and if I don't save myself now I never will," Bobby said.

Tom nodded slowly. 

"I'm giving you our stakes in the boxers and the gym. It's your turn now, Tom. I don't care what you do with it as long as you kick up my monthly cut. After I walk out of here tonight I don't plan on ever coming back. Do we have an understanding?"

"I need to know one thing, Sweets" Tom said.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," Bobby replied.

"Are you running from something?" Tom asked.

Bobby blinked.

"I guess I won't know that until I know if I'm being chased, Tom. Lewis was being chased, I think. Chased right of town. You'll let me know if I'm being chased right, Tom? Let me or Marcus know, of course. You've met Marcus?"

Tom nodded and decided to stare at the floor for a while.

"Right. Then I look forward to our new arrangement and I wish you nothing but the best in your future endeavours. I'm off to bed, old friend, but before I leave feel free to unburden yourself of any little matters that may be troubling you. Now is the time, Tom. A tide in the affairs of men, when taken at the flood...it's flooding, Tom."

"There's nothing, Bobby," Tom said.

"Glad to hear it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to have a word with Marcus before I go. The man's slippery. Stealthy. Near impossible to locate."

"He's standing behind you," Tom said.

"I expected nothing less," Bobby said. "Goodnight, Tom. Marcus, lead me to this lady doctor. I'm on a roll. You don't take the dice away from a man on a roll. Can I get an affirmation, Marcus?"

"Amen, Brother Sweets."

"Amen, Brother Marcus."

 

 

2.9 - Nell

 

Nell leaned against the concrete wall, half an eye on the action in front of her. The gym wasn't nearly full, although Evans and White were putting on a good show tonight. Most of her attention was focused on the group of men watching the fight. Bobby had come in earlier than usual, although Lewis was nowhere in sight. Usually they were attached at the hip at these local fights, where the bets were lower and Bobby didn't have to entertain out of town "guests." Nell ground her teeth. If Lewis planned to stiff her after the shit he pulled, he had another thing coming.

Before she went after him though, she needed to rein herself in; otherwise, he would needle her into doing something stupid. The thump of fist on flesh had a numbing effect. She could watch the blows land with professional curiosity, and when the fight ended, offer whatever assistance was needed. Some of the regulars preferred to take care of themselves, or to let their managers clean up and ice the worst of their injuries. The ones who knew her would find their way over before the night was done.

She had noticed that men with families were most likely to seek her out, the ones who didn't like turning up at home cut to ribbons or having to answer awkward questions in Accident and Emergency. It was easier to hang onto a piece of the action when they could get bandaged up and sent back to their wives with minimal fuss. The quasi-professionals - fighters who made the rounds and only stopped in Skegness when the money was sweet - viewed her with suspicion. They usually arrived in insular pairs, swaggering through town flush or throwing punches with hostile desperation. Those fights got ugly; the more money they had on the line, the worse it got. The locals fought hard, but the knowledge that they were neighbours kept things civil enough.

Nell was happiest when the out-of-towners ignored her. It was the ones with a predatory air who reminded her to pull on a bulky sweatshirt and long pants when she stayed late. She fingered the knuckledusters in her pocket. They had been a parting gift from her husband before his last tour and just about all she'd kept when she sold the house in Virginia after his death.

"Harris!" Nell's head snapped up. White was still laying into Evans. She glanced around and saw Danny Collins waving her over. He spent all his spare time at the gym, although he didn't get many fights, which she suspected was due to the fact that his daughter had Downs. He wasn't great in the ring, and most of the guys felt terrible taking money out of his pocket.

She waved back. He probably wanted her to have a look at his hand. He'd sprained a couple fingers last week, and his wife had been on his case about it. Collins was hanging around with the usual suspects - his brother Tom, and a brick of man called Carl, who came into the cafe for breakfast just about every morning. At the moment, Tom was deep in conversation with the very person Nell needed to see. Of course, in this light, Bobby Thomas looked even less like a man she wanted to hit up for money.

He had probably seven stone on her and fairly towered over the Collins brothers. Bobby Thomas also had the distinction of being the darkest-skinned man, by a considerable margin, in all of Skegness. He was striking and he damn well knew it; in fact, he seemed accustomed to being noticed and appreciated. His own beauty obviously pleased him, and it put Nell on her guard. In her experience, beautiful men were dangerous and vain and easily angered. She cracked her knuckles and straightened up. Where was Lewis, anyway? She'd been planning to use him as a buffer, so of course, he was nowhere to be found.

"How do these look, Doc?" Collins asked as soon as she stepped close enough to have a hand thrust into her face.

The fingers were still taped, but the swelling had gone down. "You've been icing them every night?"

"Just like you said."

"I can tell. They look better," she said, putting gentle pressure on them.

"Jesus!" Collins snatched his hand back.

"You're out of commission for a while yet." He groaned dramatically and Nell grinned. "Susan still giving you trouble?"

"You'd think I'd gone and died with how useless she makes me out to be."

"To be fair," Tom said, turning to them, "you were pretty damn useless to begin with." Collins aimed a punch at him with his good hand, which his brother deflected effortlessly.

Nell took a step back as Tom locked his little brother in a headlock, the smaller man struggling futilely. Carl just shook his head and shoved them both toward the door. He gave them shit about their "curfew," but was also the one who made sure they got home before the front lights went out. He glanced back over his shoulder at Nell and inclined his head incrementally in Bobby's direction. She shrugged and waved him off. He looked pointedly between them, his face unreadable, before ushering his charges out the back door.

"So, Doc ," Bobby drawled, "how are you enjoying the festivities this evening?" He had turned to see the last bout, and she followed his gaze. Evans had retired for the evening, but White had stayed in to take on a man Nell had only heard referred to as Smalls. Predictably, he was the size of a barge.

"S'alright," she said. She focused on the thud of landed punches. "I was looking for Lewis actually. Haven't seen him around tonight."

"What do you need with him?"

"Thought you knew," Nell glanced at Bobby. "He showed up and needed me do some work."

"Is that right?"

"Said you sent him."

"Did he?" Bobby shifted, and she was immediately aware of how he controlled his strength. He reminded her of rattlesnakes she used to come across growing up. His tone was a warning to tread carefully.

"That's what he said."

"Is that all?" Nell felt his gaze move from the fight to her face.

"No," she replied. "He also said you'd pay."

There was a long pause. Nell forced herself to wait him out. "And how much do I owe for this expert attention?"

"Forty."

"Seems steep for a Yank operating without a license," he said.

"I have a license. I was an EMT back in the States."

He grunted. "Doubt that qualifies you here."

"You didn't seem overly concerned when I started bandaging up your fighters a month ago," she said.

"Maybe I've changed my mind."

"Well, maybe I don't care for you sending thugs to my aunt's place," she snapped. "It's shitty for business, and we had a deal."

"Watch your tone." The man who appeared at Bobby's side was a stranger to her. He looked out of place in his neatly pressed slacks and polished shoes, but there was something about his gaze that made Nell feel positively fortunate her previous dealings had been with Sweet Bobby Thomas. Where Bobby was all warning rattle, here was a cobra, hooded, and happy to strike.

"Marcus, please," Bobby said, his hand coming to rest lightly on the man's arm. "We're having a civilized discussion regarding our mutual...interests."

"Really?" Marcus frowned. "Because it sounds to me like she could use an object lesson in respect."

"I hardly think that's necessary," Bobby said, pulling out his wallet and handing Nell a twenty. "I think we have an understanding. Don't we, Ms Harris?"

She clenched the cash. "I'll look Lewis up for the rest then," Nell said, her eyes on him.

"Good luck with that," Marcus sneered.

"Nothing to do with luck," she said softly.

Marcus' fist tightened. "Fuck it," Bobby said. "Just give her the twenty so I don't have to listen to this shit anymore."

Marcus dug some money out of his pocket and tossed it on the floor between them, his eyes never leaving her face as about five pounds in coin landed on the concrete floor. The look on his face dared her to come within reach of those steel-toed shoes to grab it. Nell couldn't be sure, but she thought Bobby's face reddened as the money hit the floor.

"On second thoughts," she said, forcing a smile, "you can just owe me one." She turned on her heel and paused only to scoop up her bag on her way to the door.

As soon as it slammed behind her, she broke into a jog. She turned to cut through the darkened houses on Edward, picking up speed as a dog's sharp yelps followed her onto Victoria. Her heart was thudding in her ears, but she pushed harder even as she felt the muscles in her shins protest.

Nell slowed to let a van pull into the hospital's drive. It had been a mistake to approach Bobby tonight. She should have waited until Lewis showed up and demanded he get the money himself. Now she'd put herself on that asshole Marcus' radar. Her adrenaline surged and she sprinted through the roundabout toward Scarborough Ave. Bobby might consider himself king, but his new sidekick sociopath clearly lived to watch empires burn.

Nell forced herself to slow to a walk as she neared the entrance to the Sand Castle. She wiped away the worst of the sweat with her sleeve and shook her hair out. She smoothed it as best she could before ducking inside.

It was immediately obvious she'd missed Mabel's act. Nell sagged in the doorway. She just wanted to grab a drink with the kind of company that could make her forget the fear curled around her spine. Dragging her fingers through the rat's nest her hair had become, Nell headed to the bar.

"Hey," she said, as the bartender looked up. "You haven't seen Mabel tonight, have you?"

"Sure," his name tag read "Daniel."

"Since the show, I mean?"

"She grabbed a drink right after she wrapped up, but she left with a guy a while ago," he said, glancing toward some less dishevelled customers who had sidled up to study the drink menu.

"You know him?" Nell asked, grabbing his sleeve as he started to turn away.

"No," he replied, staring pointedly at the fingers creasing his cuff. "Had an accent though." He looked up. "Not like yours. Think he said he was Romanian."

"You know a guy named Popescu, by any chance?" Nell asked as he twitched his shirt sleeve from her grasp.

Daniel shook his head. Nell pushed away from the bar; she couldn't afford to drink at an over-priced tourist trap, not without Mabel as an excuse. She resigned herself to a bottle of her aunt's cheap red and a double-locked door, and headed home.

Nell eschewed her usual shortcuts, instead keeping to well-lit boulevards. She curled her fingers around the smooth brass knuckles in her pocket as she slipped past late night strollers. As a weapon, they would do little enough against the wrong man, but they served a purpose nonetheless. Even if it all went sideways after tonight, they reminded her of certain promises, and of what it once meant not to be alone.